


she laughed and danced (with the thought of death in her heart)

by DisposablePaperCup



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Drowning, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Little Mermaid Elements, Modern Era, POV Peter Parker, Pending Possible Rewrite, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Pining, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Vomiting, forgot to update tw tags, handwaving at medical practices and illness, nonspecific mermaid powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposablePaperCup/pseuds/DisposablePaperCup
Summary: -“Okay,” Peter claps his hands together and wracks his brain for something to talk about, “Do, uh… do you have a name?”The girl squints at him. Glares, more like.“‘Cause, I don’t know - I just feel really weird calling you ‘the girl’ in my head. So, a name?”She shuffles almost uncomfortably and something dawns on him.“You can’t talk, can you?”She glares harder.-(Or, aThe Little MermaidmeetsPonyomeetsSong of the SeaAU but make it Peter/MJ)
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. sea spiders don't spin silk

Peter sighs and taps his pencil over his essay again in a rapid staccato.

His brain is slowing and he can feel it, which, as he knows from experience, will only detriment the quality of his work as he goes. He’ll start making stupid spelling mistakes and repeating himself or leaving out transition words or whole sentences and then his grade on the paper will take a swooping dive downwards.

Ergo, break time.

He stands and brushes off his lap, stretching his arms up over his head and rolling his neck. He grabs his boots from beside the door and slips into the other room. The house isn’t especially large - just two bedrooms, one bathroom, and the main area - so he’s already a few feet from the front door just by leaving his room.

The main room is quiet and has an almost dusty feel to it despite being recently cleaned. The couch and rocking chair sit solitary, without any kind of television or entertainment stand to be a focus. The little basket of yarn sits for May’s projects by the coffee table, isolated in its little bubble of color.

Peter takes a seat on the couch and pulls on his boots.

“Hey, May?” He calls, deftly doing up his laces, “I’m going out for a bit.”

His Aunt’s voice responds from her room where she’s finishing up work, “Did you finish your homework?”

“Two-thirds done. I’m only planning on grabbing something from the market, though.” 

A pause. Peter bites his lip and fiddles with the lace aglets. 

“Alright, but be back before dinner so you have time to finish it before tomorrow.”

He smiles, “Thanks! Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Peter grins and snags his dark blue duffle coat from the rack. He shoves his arms into the sleeves and starts doing up the buttons, giving Sandwich a rub between the ears on his way to the door. The gray-haired Broholmer dog just snorts and ignores him.

Peter finishes with the buttons on his way down the steps. The familiar mist and drizzle that comes with the end of a rainstorm instantly fizzes up his wavy hair, and he pats it down ineffectually. 

Their house is an old, family-built cottage that they’d had to update so many times in such short bursts that it is all but externally falling apart and the plumbing pipes are visible on the side wall. The steps are wood planks over old stone stairs that creak when dry and swell in the rain. It’s at the top of a hill, too steep for cars and too short for a lighthouse or anything useful, so it was cheap enough for them to afford. May’s work in the library isn’t exactly a wealthy occupation.

Peter makes his way down with practiced ease, avoiding the little patch of slippery moss and weeds that always pops up after a rainstorm. He starts down the dirt road that leads to the market streets, breathing in and out slowly to appreciate the cool afternoon air.

Eventually, he zones out, letting his body walk on autopilot. 

The church is the first building he sees over the hills, being the tallest. The peak of it consistently reminds Peter of a miniature lightning rod, though he’s never been able to confirm that’s what it actually is or isn’t. He crests the hill and takes another deep breath. 

The town is just a little thing, barely on the map and named after the founder - Oscar Hevnerby, or something-or-other. Though, more accurately, it’s named after Hevnerby’s death, since he was killed in what is now the town hall. It’s a little morbid, really, or at least Peter thinks so.

It’s shoved between a chunk of land that’s just trees and another that’s a mound of hills all shoved together, which makes it hard to build anything on either side, and the coast, which is where most people live since the fishing is good and the land is decent. 

The market streets are all crowded together at the edge of the town, near the coast, where the stalls have just enough room to fit and the fishermen can easily pawn off their catch. May works in the library-slash-bookstore combo just a few streets over. 

He absentmindedly fingers the few bills in his jacket pocket. He’s got some extra money from the remainder of his allowance the week before, so he resolves to get himself something nicer than usual.

Peter strides through the market and turns down the street that led to the docks. On the way, he quickly buys a tart yellow apple from his usual stall and bites into it. It’s a crisp, sour-sweet taste in the way only apples can be and the juice is sweet and refreshing. He hums appreciatively.

People bustle along, carts of fish, shells, or bright purple fabric in their wakes. Among other things, dye is another trade item from Hevnerby. One of the rarer ones, considering the shells needed to make them are difficult to find in large amounts, but one of the more lucrative ones, for sure. Peter resigns himself to only looking, feeling a bit wistful and wondering if he could put away enough money to buy May something like that before the next spring.

He sighs and takes another bite of apple.

“Peter!”

Peter jumps in surprise and hastily wipes apple juice away from his mouth. He turns to see the familiar wide-grinned face of his friend Ned looking back at him.

He smiles, his friend’s obvious excitement infectious, “Ned! Hey, what’s uh, what’s up?”

Ned waves his hands and gestures wildly, “Dude. _Dude_. Have you seen it yet?” 

“Seen what?”

“The _ship_ \- jeez, it’s gotta be, what? Two-hundred feet? It’s that Toomes guy that brought it in, the fisherman?” Ned says, groaning at Peter’s blank face, “Alright, since you’re so out of the loop - you’ve _got_ to go check it out later. I swear, how much stuff do you think they haul in every day?”

Peter bit his apple again and shrugged, “Dunno. Two-hundred feet, you said?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not actually sure. You’re the boat guy, you tell me when you see it.”

“Sure, Ned.”

“Wait-wait, that’s not the best part,” Ned says, and his eyes get an odd gleam to them.

Peter squints suspiciously, “What _is_ the best part?”

“It’s _vintage._ Which, in layman’s terms, means it’s _old as hell_ . It’s made of wood, Peter. _Wood_.”

Peter blinks, “Huh.”

Though it wasn’t impossible for someone to have one of the older-fashioned boats, it was definitely uncommon. Most people had fiberglass or metal ships, better suited for the modern-day. The maintenance on that thing must be _insane_ , Peter thought.

“Wait,” Peter’s face scrunches up as he pictured it, “Like… like a _pirate ship_?”

Ned grins, “ _Exactly_ like a pirate ship.”

“Wow. That-that’s _crazy_ , dude. That thing must cost a _fortune_.”

  
“Yup!” Ned says proudly, “So, wanna go check it out later? It’s down by the docks on the other side of town and it’s taking up like, two full spots so you can’t miss it. You can bring that camera you got last year and take photos.”

Peter’s shoulders slump as he thinks of the papers in his room, “I can’t. I’ve got an essay to finish up before tomorrow afternoon. I’ve gotta be back by dinner anyway. And I wanted to go back to the cove to grab something.”

His friend deflates somewhat, “Aw, what?” A sigh, “Alright, well, it’s Sunday, right? see if you can’t get May to give you tomorrow after school. How about four?”

Peter glances at his digital watch, which displays _5:21 PM_ , mentally calculating, “Yeah, sure, dude. I’ll ask May about it.”

“Sick. See you, Peter.” Ned waves, then slips off into the crowd.

Peter takes another contemplative bite of his apple and turns to keep walking. He can’t make it to the far docks, sure, but he can at least go and check out the cove.

The cove is a little section of cliffside that had been hollowed out from decades of constant waves and seaspray. Ned and Peter had found it one day years ago when the latter had slipped on the wet grass and rolled down the hill, almost landing in the sea. A rope ladder was made and they hung it from one of the larger boulders dotting the hilltop, letting them climb down into the semi-cave area. Hence, the cove.

Peter ditches his apple, now a core, at some point during his walk, chucking it into a bush to hopefully get an animal to make use of it. The air gets chillier as he goes, and he wiggles into his jacket, sticking his hands in his pockets.

He marches up the hill, taking care not to slip and bash his head open on a rock, before crouching and finding the first rung of the rope ladder, buried in the overgrown grass.

Peter carefully follows it to the edge of the cliff, shuffling along, before it drops off completely. 

He swings his legs onto the ladder and descends off the edge.

The first time he ever climbed down he almost completely freaked out, scared into _freeze_ versus fight or flight, and had to force himself to climb the rest of the way down, since telling anyone would get them in trouble for playing around the cliff. He ended up jumping the remaining four feet down the ladder and scratching his palm open, which was thankfully easier to explain.

Now, though, he’s familiar with the swaying motion of the ladder, unphased by the way he’s completely supported by the construction of rope and wood. It’s almost like a leap of faith, in some odd way.

He reaches the bottom and his boots splash as he hops off into a shallow puddle of salt water.

The cove hasn’t changed. Which, it shouldn’t have, since that would mean either it flooded and their things got ruined, or someone else came and discovered his and Ned’s spot, so that’s a good thing. 

Peter absentmindedly runs his hands along the _NL_ and _PP_ initials carved on the large stone column in the entrance as he walks past. The little waterproof box of knick-knacks they’d gathered or bought sits with a pile of blankets at the side wall, a little personal touch in the big empty space. There are a few granola bars and water bottles tucked away as well, just in case. The blankets for if they got stuck there overnight.

He walks over and shoves the blankets aside, letting out a brief sigh of relief when he finds a book under the mess. It’s a little damp, though not soaking wet, which he’s grateful for. The library sticker on the side glares at him and he guiltily tucks it under his arm. 

Peter straightens, gives the area a passing glance, before turning to leave. 

As he does, a shimmer catches on the edge of his vision. He pauses and turns, the light from the lowering sun glinting off something caught in the rocks.

He squints, walking over to one of the deeper tidepools and looking in. The water reflects the sunlight, turning into a mirror when he gets at an angle close enough. He blinks away the glare and tilts his head.

There, at the very edge of the water, is a sliver of something metallic. Peter adjusts his book and dips his hand in the pool to pull it out. It slips away from his grasp a few times before he gets a sturdy grip on the thing.

A scale. Silver and speckled with a dark blotch on one edge. It’s larger than any scale Peter had ever seen, and he squints as he examines it in the fading daylight. He mentally goes through every fish he’d ever seen in the market or in books and couldn’t think of anything that matched both the coloration and the size.

“Huh.” He says and startles at the haunting echo.

Eventually, he shrugs. No use straining his mind on something he doesn't' have the resources to recognize. He figures it must be from a kind of fish he hasn't seen, since he certainly hasn't seen _every_ species, and he definitely can't recognize it from distant memory.

He shoves it in his pocket and heads back over to the ladder. He’d just add ‘research’ to the list of things he has to do. 

Then he remembered the essay, checks his watch, curses, and started running.

Of _course_ he's late.

\---

Peter forgets about the scale the next day, though mostly because of Ned’s insistence on checking out the ship ( _“It’s called a_ Galleon _, or something like that. I guess it’s really old and really big? It’s crazy cool, though.”_ ) that evening is a bit distracting.

He ignores Flash’s boasting and typical ‘I’m better than you’ attitude in favor of Ned’s excitement. His mood is still relatively positive by the time school let out, and he all but ran home.

It’s misty out, and his boots and pants up to the knees are pretty much soaked from the remnants of that night’s rainfall, so he throws his boots on the porch before shaking off like a dog. 

His essay is finished half an hour later, and Peter snags a snack before running out to meet Ned.

Peter walks to the docks with a piece of buttered toast sticking out of his mouth. He chews as he goes, and has to dodge Ms. Atterby’s children several times when he passes their house, determined as they are to bug him. 

He makes it to the docks with four hours to spare before he has to head home and immediately goes to seek out Ned. His friend said he’d be waiting for him there after school and, judging by the time and Peter’s own need for food, would likely be at a food stall close by.

The far docks aren’t ‘far’, per se, since the docks take up the whole of the coast of the town, but they are farthest from Peter’s house as opposed to the other dock areas. He doesn’t exactly stop to smell the roses, so it takes him fifteen minutes to get there as opposed to the usual thirty, even while stopping to drop off the - two weeks late, which he pays the fine for - library book.

He spots the ship before he sees Ned, and immediately understands his friend’s enthusiasm.

The ship is _massive_ , a three-masted, wooden construction that looks like something straight out of _Pirates of the Carribean_ . The wood is glossy and sharp, and even the barnacles scattered on the bottom match the aesthetic. There’s a mermaid as the figurehead, arms aimed up with a conch shell in her hands like a trumpet. It’s got well-maintained railings and sails and has an honest to god _crow’s nest._ It’s regal in a bold, powerful way, in the way a rapier sword is. 

Peter can’t help but gape because this is _Hevnerby_ \- a small town with small people and small _boats_. It looks comically large and out of place, like a CGI construction in a movie.

“Didn’t I tell you it was crazy cool?”

Peter _does not_ jump and spins around to face Ned. His friend has a Cheshire grin on and Peter scoffs incredulously. 

“I think you overestimated the two-hundred feet thing.”

Ned shrugs, “It looks smaller in person. Honestly, I hadn’t seen it before today either, I just heard it from Charles and Jacob and whoever at school.”

Peter looks back at the ship in awe, “Who do you think owns it? Or why is it _here_ of all places?”

His friend gives another shrug, “I think the guy who owns it is like, rich or something? I think his kid is going to our school. They’re moving here. Not sure why _here_ , ‘cause, y’know, small town, though it might be something to do with his family? Like a relative? Dunno.”

Peter nods absently.

“Hey. Get outta the way.”

Peter and Ned jolt to attention and move when someone’s tractor rattles through, pulling a wagon of empty, salt-soaked baskets. The teens, used to it, don’t so much as cringe at the overwhelming smell of fish.

Ned elbows Peter in the side and gestures for them to leave.

“People have been taking photos of that thing all day, y’know,” Ned begins, without preamble, “Some journalists or something from the tiny little newspaper shop down by the highway were checking it out.”

Peter blinks, remembering, “Ah, shoot! I forgot my camera. Sorry, dude.”

“It’s fine! Besides, I just got the _Lord of the Rings_ box set delivered,” His friend grins widely, stars in his eyes, “It’s got like, bonus features and everything!”

The other teen whistles appreciatively.

“Wanna come over to my house later and watch it?”

Peter automatically deflates, “Gotta go run back to May and ask her, which shouldn’t be a problem, but still. She likes knowing when I’m going places and where and all that.”

Ned frowns slightly, “You really need to get a cellphone, dude.”

“I have one.”

“Yeah, but it’s _ancient_ . It doesn’t even have cell service. You need _wifi_ to send texts and it’s not like there are any internet cafes around. I’d have you use mine but I left it on the charger at home since it takes forever to get to full battery.”

“Sorry, Ned.” Peter sighs.

“Don’t be, dude. It’s not like it’s gonna take you the rest of the day to run home and come back. I’ll meet you at my house.” Ned waves him away.

“Alright, thanks, man.”

“No problem. And, hey, who am I to keep the joy that is _Lord of the Rings_ all to myself?”

Peter chuckles lightly and waves as he walks off.

He takes his time to get back, since Ned’s house is closer than the docks are, and has to once again drop his boots outside when the grass soaks them through.

“May, I’m back!” He calls out, “Just dropping off the money. Hey, Ned wanted to know if I could come over to watch a movie with him. It'll probably be overnight and… May?”

He pokes his head into the kitchenette and glances around. Nothing.

“ _Maaay_?” Peter walks to her room and finds the light off, then turns back to the living room.

There’s a note on the counter, a slip of yellow-ish notepad paper, and Peter immediately knows what’s up.

It reads, ‘ _Gotta help Mr. and Ms. Anderson with their newborn tonight. There are leftovers in the fridge. Don’t let anybody in and make sure you lock the door. Love you! - May’._

Peter nods and taps the note against his opposite hand. He exhales in a low breath before walking over to the landline on the side of the fridge.

After a second or two of ringing, Ned answers, “ _Ned Leeds._ ”

Peter can’t help his smile, “You still answer like that?”

“ _...No._ ” A beat. “... _My mom says it makes me sound professional._ ”

“It does, dude. It really does, don’t worry. But, uh, hey - May isn’t here tonight so I can’t come over. You know how she is.”

“ _Aw, man. I guess we can watch it tomorrow. You got any make-up work or anything_?”

“Nothing, thankfully. We’ve got the whole afternoon to ourselves. We can probably snoop around to see what’s the deal with the pirate ship.”

“ _Yeah. I wouldn’t say ‘snoop’, though. It just seems weird. Like, intrusive. It’s probably public knowledge._ ”

Peter leans against the counter, “Yeah, you’re right. Anyway, I’m gonna do my homework. See you tomorrow.”

“ _See you!_ ”

There’s a click and Peter replaces the phone on its cradle.

Homework is a collection of math equations, a science study guide, and a general overview for the next section of lessons in history. He zones out for most of it, only struggling on one or two bits with variables and double negatives. When he’s done he feels almost physically lighter, which is a given when having to deal with the burden that is schoolwork.

He flops onto his bed once he finally gets it all shoved into his bag and gets changed. Peter stares at the window as the sky darkens, burrowing into his blankets. 

Sleep washes over him gently, as his consciousness goes fuzzy around the edges. He gratefully falls into a deep, warm slumber.

\---

Peter wakes to freezing cold darkness and saltwater in his lungs.

He panics, kicking himself up and away and he sputters up water at the surface-

Hacking and coughing and _choking_ like a dying animal-

His legs start to tread water automatically and he _can’t see it’s too dark-_

The water is dark black and ice cold and an all-encompassing abyss that just spells _death_ , and, and, _and-_

And he can feel his muscles locking up-

Panic shoots through him like a livewire and digs into him with its scaly, saw-edged claws, drawing blood-

There’s barking, panicked, somewhere to his right-

A wave sweeps over his head and brings him bobbing back up, sputtering and disoriented, he follows the noise-

Desperate, choppy movements accompanied by the snare-drum rattle of his shivering bones and clacking teeth-

The sand is a few inches below him so he _forces_ the tips of his toes in and flings his limbs forward-

The shore is just a blurry, pale stretch on the horizon-

Pins and needles scatter along his limbs and his mind becomes a desperate repetition of _swim swim SWIM-_

He scrambles to dry land and heaves, water coming up in desperate bursts.

When the keening cry of _survive, survive, survive,_ and the burning force of water coming up from his lungs calms enough that he’s only coughing every second breath, Peter rolls onto his side and curls into a ball. Something - someone, he realizes, as Sandwich’s tongue laps at his face - shoves their way against his stomach, a little bit of warmth making him _ache_ and cry out quietly. 

He’s cold, ice-cold, and already can feel exhaustion overtaking him after his desperate swim for shore. His pajamas are soaked and weighing him down. He feels like he’s been wrung out, a piece of putty squashed and molded before being left to deflate.

A wave sweeps up and douses his legs again and his breath catches roughly in his throat as he freezes all over again. Sandwich darts away with a whine, calling for him to follow.

“W-what?” He asks, his voice rough and desperate for something, _anything_ , but the sea doesn’t answer. The only reply is Sandwich’s insistent pawing at the sand and gentle nips at his clothes.

With gargantuan effort, Peter digs his fingers into the beach and pulls himself through the muddy, cold sand and further away from the ocean and it’s salt-saturated depths. He makes a choked-off noise when his burning lungs strain themselves once again. He makes it just a foot or two before going limp on the ground again. 

Sandwich puts himself to use and curls up next to him, letting Peter warm himself against the dog’s body. The contrast of temperatures makes him cry from the sheer, aching _pain_ that feels like a sore muscle, burning through him unexpectedly.

There’s sand everywhere, and salt clings to his now-dehydrated skin. His eyes sting and there’s salt crusted in his lashes and on his eyelids. He’s sure the burning in his stomach is from drinking water, and the burning in his lungs is obvious in its source.

He thinks, and can’t stop thinking.

He could have died.

He could have _died_. 

_He could have died_. And the only witness would be a dog too old to properly go on walks anymore and the distant, abysmal night sky. The sky that could care less about Peter’s fate. The sky that’s probably watched hundreds of kids die, alone except for the impassive, atmospheric spectator watching them go.

He buries his face in his dog’s fur, not caring much about the snot and spit dripping down his face. Not caring about the salt on every inch of him like a second skin. Not caring about the sand in his hair, or the obvious weight of water in his stomach, or the liquid clinging to his lungs and throat. Not caring about the salt in his teeth and under his fingernails, stuck underneath them, stuck in his _bones_.

Just caring about how he could have died.

He could have died.

And nobody would have known it.

Something catches on his vision in the pale, washed-out moonlight and he sluggishly looks up.

Resting innocently on the sand, oblivious to his shaking form, is a single, silver scale.

Peter jerks to the side and loses his lunch.

\---

He doesn’t shower when he gets home. He’s half-unsure how he got home in the first place, the journey an exhaustion-blurred haze, and he’s sure Sandwich had something to do with it, but he’s not going to complain. He’s too tired to do much more than change and wipe away the major evidence of his late-night escapade before collapsing back onto his bed. Sandwich snoring breezily next to him on the floor.

He doesn’t go to sleep.

He’s not sure what happened, but what he does know is this: He went to sleep and woke up drowning. And he’s not exactly desperate for a repeat, so, logically, he has to avoid the cause to avoid the effects.

He runs his thumb over the scale, hand resting on his pillow.

He kept it. He’s not sure why, but he did. He has no idea what’s happening or why and if it was just a fluke or not - but what he does know is that the scale has something to do with it.

And, if Peter’s honest, he’s _terrified_. 

Some kind of mystery sleep-walking nonsense happened where he didn’t even wake up when _walking into the ocean_ to presumably _drown himself_ , and he’s got nothing. No answers. Plenty of questions, sure, but nothing concrete. 

His stomach hurts and his lungs are still burning, but it feels distant. Like he’s hearing a sound from another room. There’s a kind of stiffness to his limbs, and his skin feels uncomfortably taut, the way only saltwater can make it when dehydrated. 

There’s a bone-deep rattle in him, resonating with the saltwater stuck in the deepest, darkest parts of his body. Shoved under his ribs and against his beating heart, in his chest, in his skull. He’s water-logged in the worst kind of way. 

He hurts. He’s scared. He’s cold.

Peter buries his face in his pillow and doesn’t sleep again.

\---

“Hey, dude, what’s- _wow_ , you look… uh…” Ned stammers.

Peter takes pity on him, “Like I didn’t sleep all night?”

His friend nods slowly, “Among… other things.”

That sentiment is accurate since Peter had found himself with a cold and mild fever when he woke that morning. Though he covered it up as well as he could and went to school hopped up on ibuprofen and some grape cough medicine that tastes like burnt tires. 

He miraculously didn’t get hypothermia, or at least only got a mild case of it, and there have been no signs of dry-land drowning from residual water in his lungs, so he’s hoping for the best. 

Suffocating on his own lungs in the middle of P.E. would be pretty inconvenient, after all. 

He sighs, “Yeah, I didn’t sleep well. It happens. You wanted to watch _Lord of the Rings_?”

“Yeah, but… If you aren’t feeling up to it-?”

“Ned, honestly? The last thing I want right now is to make myself feel crummier by missing out on a movie marathon that I’ve been waiting to see for _ages_.”

He’d rather not talk about it. Not _think_ about it. But he doesn't say that.

Ned frowns, “I mean, I guess. Oh! I figured out what the deal with the ship is.”

Peter looks over in surprise, “Really?”

“Yeah - turns out the guy who owns it, Adrian Toomes, I think? It was like his grandfather’s. He just recently bought it back and stuff and has lived here for years, but he’s a bit of a shut-in so nobody knows much about what he does.” He pauses to wander around a pedestrian, “His daughter lived out of state for a bit but she’s gonna move here to live with him. Not sure what he’s gonna do with the ship but it is cool as hell.”

Peter hums in agreement as they walk back to Ned’s house.

“So, what can I expect from these movies?” He asks, and Ned’s face lights up.

“It’s _great_ \- we’ve got Frodo, who’s Bilbo’s nephew - actually his cousin but hobbits are weird? Anyway, Frodo has to do stuff with the ring - you remember that from the last movie - and there’s Gandalf again…”

Peter zones out as Ned talks, though he’s still half-listening. He decides to just stick with _normal_ for tonight. Normal is all he really wants right now. What he _needs_ right now.

They head to Ned’s house, and Peter lets himself be normal.

\---

Two weeks later, normal doesn’t work anymore.

He has to jog back to the house after yet another sleepover where he forgot his backpack at home. Sandwich doesn’t give him a second glance, per usual, and Peter tosses his boots on the porch. 

“Hey, May? Forgot my bag! I’ll just be a sec.” He calls, meandering into his room.

It’s been a while since the whole ‘sleepwalking into the ocean’ incident, and Peter is starting to finally feel relaxed again. He started locking his door those first few nights just to be able to sleep and has woken in his bed every time. He still locks it. Just in case.

Peter - and Ned by proxy - was just focusing on the normal. And, so far, it’s worked. He’s gone back to the cove with Ned and hung out without finding any more mysterious scale nonsense, the pirate ship in the far docks has just been sitting there, so he assumes it’s going to stay - which, _awesome_ \- and, best of all, _Liz._

Liz is the new girl. Beautiful, smart, and she makes friends like it’s as easy as breathing. She’s kind and considerate and is the captain of practically everything - well, everything that matters, I.e: the Hevnerby decathlon team, which Peter is in - all in all, she’s _perfect_. 

And, per the unspoken Highschool law, she has no idea Peter exists.

Which, _good_ . That’s _normal_ , and thus what Peter wants. It doesn’t make that little jealous bump in his chest screaming _Notice me! Notice me! Notice me!_ go away, though.

Peter shakes his head to clear away the self-deprecating thoughts and grabs his backpack from under the bed.

“May?” He calls, then pauses.

His only reply is a quiet cough that sends a jolt of fear straight through Peter’s heart.

“ _May_?” He all but scrambles for her room and pushes open the door.

His aunt is rolled over on her side, weakly coughing into her pillow. Peter is by her side in an instant, one hand on her forehead. He pales and jerks his hand away when her skin burns up in comparison to his. 

“No, no no, no-” He repeats it like a mantra as he scrambles to grab a wet cloth from the kitchen.

May is all but sleeping at this point, but the coughs racking her frame are a sure sign of consciousness - _painful_ consciousness - and Peter places the rag over her forehead with a delicacy that he’s never had before, stemmed from pure terror.

He clenches his shaking hands and forces himself to _stop panicking_. To _think, Parker._

“Doctor.” He mutters, “Phone.”

He’s never called anyone so fast in his life, all the while cursing small towns without immediate emergency service response. It’d take them an hour to get all the way out from the nearest city and that’s _not fast enough_. 

Peter almost cries in relief when someone answers on the first ring.

\---

Two hours later, he’s sitting in the ER waiting room and biting his nails to stubs.

His brain is full of static, he’s sure. Static that clouds and suffocates and _drowns_ any cognizant thought. He can’t think. Just can’t. Because he was trying to be _normal_ and now _normal_ has been thrown out the window, down a cliff, and smashed against the rocks. 

He can’t breathe. He’s _breathing_ , sure, but he can’t _breathe_. 

May is… _May is_ … everything. Without Ben? She’s _everything_ . She’s all he’s had since his parents got on that stupid research boat and since Ben got shot. She’s _all_ he’s had. His mind automatically pushes thoughts of Ned and his parents out of his mind because this is _May_. It’s different - she - _she’s_ different.

“Mr. Parker?”

He glances up, numb, “Huh?”

The nurse gives a sympathetic quirk of her lips and glances at the clipboard in her hands. Peter can’t help but hate the clipboard. He can’t hate the nurse - she’s just doing her job, he should be _grateful_ for what they’ve done for May, and he _is,_ of course - so he hates the clipboard.

He stares evenly at the offending object while she talks.

“Alright, hon. Your Aunt has been admitted with a very high fever, almost one-oh-four. You were smart to take care of it the way you did, sweetheart, don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her. Do you have somewhere to stay that’s not on your own?”

He doesn’t. He says, “Yes.”

The nurse smiles gently, “Alright, well, your Aunt is going to be just fine. Don’t worry, baby. Now, what I want you to do now is go talk to the lady at the front desk to talk about insurance and payment, okay? Can you do that?”

Something sinks, deep and cloying in Peter’s stomach. His mouth works on automatic, “Yes.”

The nurse gives another smile and leaves. He can’t remember if she said goodbye or not. His brain is filling with foam and fuzz.

He stands and goes to the desk.

“Mr. Parker?” This woman’s voice is clipped. She gives him a cursory glance before returning her undivided attention to her computer.

“T-that’s, um… that’s me.” Peter stammers, feeling small and insignificant even when he’s standing and she’s sitting. 

She gives him a look. Peter can’t place it.

“Alright, well, we’ll bill you the cost when your mom is ready to be discharged. Do you have insurance?”

Peter whispers, “ _Aunt_.” Under his breath before handing the woman the insurance card from May’s wallet, tucked away in his pocket. She ignores the correction. Or maybe just doesn’t hear it.

The woman types on the computer for a good five minutes, leaving Peter to stew awkwardly in his anticipation. The teen starts to think she’s forgotten he’s there. Eventually, she sighs and hands him back the card.

“The insurance isn’t going to cover the full cost. When we send you the bill we’ll deduct what the insurance _does_ cover from what you have to pay.”

Peter tense, “A-and how…” He swallows the lump in his throat, “How much would that be?”

The woman frowns, “For ER admission and immediate hospital care? Depends. If she gets better later rather than sooner, it’d be around three-thousand. Per day.”

The world drops from under his feet. 

“That’s not accounting for any vaccinations, infection treatment, or, if it’s the case, cancer screening we do, so, possibly higher than that estimate.” The woman says, seemingly oblivious to Peter’s mild case of hyperventilation. 

They _can’t_ _pay_ _for_ _this._ They can barely get by as it is, and if May takes even two days to get better…

“-and that’s about it. Just mail the bill with the money or the bank number before the date on the paperwork and you’ll be fine. The email with the diagnosis and treatment cost will also be sent at least a day or two beforehand.” The woman gives what must be a reassuring smile in her eyes and Peter resists the urge to throttle her.

“ _Thanks_.” He chokes out, taking the papers and retreating to the nearest bathroom. 

He splashes cold water on his face, which only serves to make him panic more from the memory of ice-cold ocean water leaking into his _lungs, oh god, I’m going to die_ \- and sinks down to the tile to shove his head between his knees. 

He breathes.

Three-thousand daily.

He breathes.

If she gets better.

He breathes.

 _If_ she gets better.

Wet drops slip down his cheeks and he buries his fingers in his hair, shaking. He breathes.

 _If she gets better_.

He breathes.

_If._

\---

Peter goes job-hunting two days later.

He’s already sat and stewed in his misery, in the days where he wandered his house with just him and his dog and felt so, _so_ alone. He’s given himself time for a personal pity party and burrowed in his blankets early every night. He’s even called the school to tell them he’s sick because he just _can’t do it_. Can’t do anything.

He’s given himself time. Now it’s time to start moving forward again.

He’s turned down by the baker, two different fishermen, several diners and restaurants, the tackle shop, the _other_ tackle shop, and just about every salesman on the docks.

He’s taken pity on and given a quick job sweeping up at a cafe, which only takes thirty minutes before he’s paid and sent on his way. He tucks the twenty bills into his pocket with his constant defeated air that hovers over him like a fog.

His fingers brush something in his pocket.

Peter frowns, then pulls it out. The silvery-gray scale glares up at him, as though reprimanding him for his moping. Peter glares right back, feeling irrational anger build up. He wants more than anything to chuck the stupid thing into the ocean and watch it sink.

Then, an idea dawns on him.

He makes a beeline for the nearest jewelry store.

“I have no idea what this is.” The clerk says and rotates the scale in the light for the nth time.

Peter frowns, “I mean, you make necklaces from shells and stuff, right? Wouldn’t this work?”

The clerk gives him a look, “‘Course we do, kid. But if I don’t know what it is I can’t set a good price for it, now can I?”

He thinks, then shrugs, “I guess.”

“Here, take it back. How about you go ask someone about it? Someone’s bound to know what it is, especially if they’re on the docks. Then, you come back to me, tell me what it is, and I buy it?”

Peter nods, “Alright. I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s the ticket. Good luck, kid.”

He leaves the store with a slightly dampened attitude and mutters to himself, “I’m sure _somebody_ knows what it’s from. Can’t be too hard.” 

It’s hard. Much harder than it should be, in Peter’s opinion.

Four fishermen said they had no idea, another six laughed at him for falling for some kind of mimic jewelry, and five others straight-up ignored him or told him to shove off. 

His hopes sink like ballast and he ends up wandering, one hand messing with the scale in his pocket. 

When he zones back in, he’s at the pirate ship.

Peter takes a second to look at it in an almost wistful manner. Someone with that kind of money would be able to afford hospital bills like May’s ten times over. They must, in order to afford workers to do maintenance on the thing. In fact…

Another idea pops into his head. This one? Crazy. Not impossible, but definitely unlikely. The scale-selling idea was a better bet, and at least, in that case, he had some kind of direction. Here? He’s running off pure desperation.

Peter shakes his head to clear the idea from his head, then turns to walk back.

-Then he immediately spins on his heel and marches up to the boat.

The dockworker there gives him an odd look but says nothing when Peter practically stomps straight over to him. The teen flings one arm out and points at the boat.

“Where’s the guy that owns that?”

The worker raises a brow and shrugs before jerking a thumb over his shoulder and returning to his smoking break. Peter nods seriously and heads in that direction.

His bravado and confidence start to wane as he gets closer to the warehouse he was directed to. There’s a group of men out there laughing and joking, a handful or two off in their own little huddles. None of them notice as Peter walks over and falters at the edge of their semi-circle.

“E-excuse me?” He timidly asks, a bout of raucous laughter making him flinch, but he still goes unnoticed.

“Excuse me? Sirs?” Peter steps a little closer now and feels his cheeks heat when he is once again ignored. 

Something indignant and more egotistical than the rest of him rears its head. He needs them to pay attention. He _needs_ this opportunity. Someone laughs again and Peter scowls.

“ _Excuse me!_ ” He shouts, and then immediately blushes when they all look his way.

“S-sorry,” He inhales nervously, “But-but I was wondering, um, if you needed…” He trails off, muttering.

The burly guy that’s closest to him stands and looks him over, “If you’re gonna bug us, boy, you’d best be quick about it. And _speak up!_ ” He barks that last bit and the others laugh deeply when Peter jumps.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” A new voice calls, “Your break’s over anyway, get back to hauling.”

The group groans and complains but does as they’re told. Peter breathes out a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and turns to thank the newcomer.

The man who faces him makes a vulture pop into his head, and Peter clams up instantly.

“Hey, kid,” He greets impassively, “What’d you need?”

Peter raises his chin and steels his nerves. _For May,_ he repeats. _For May_.

“I-I was looking for work, sir. I, um, need money for my Aunt, sir.” He only feels the slightest bit of guilt at playing the pity card, then it’s gone. He doesn’t feel guilty doing it for her.

The man raises a brow, “For your Aunt, you said?”

“She-she’s sick, sir. I need money.” He repeats. _For May_ clings in his head like a mantra and he holds fast to the thought, “I figured - since you own the boat an-and all, you’d have work? I-I can clean, or, um, or just help out.”

There’s a pause where the man rubs his chin and hums thoughtfully. Peter shuffles his feet and feels himself instinctively sinking lower, as though in deference, but forces himself taut and stiff.

“Alright,” The man says, finally, “I’ve got some jobs for you if hard labor doesn’t make you squeamish. You look like a strong young man, after all, and for me? Family is the most important thing there is. I’m sure it’s the same for you.”

Peter deflates and exhales in relief.

The man smiles and chuckles lightly, though not mockingly, and offers his hand, “Adrian Toomes.”

“Peter. Peter-uh, Parker. Sir.” 

The man - Toomes, evidently, which doesn’t come as a surprise to Peter - nods and tucks his hands in his pockets. 

“Nice to meet you, Pete,” He tilts his head and squints slightly, “Y’know, I have a feeling about you. It’s not a bad one, don’t worry. I just got a feeling.”

Peter smiles in what he hopes radiates ‘ _I’ll work hard, don’t worry’_ energy. Toomes looks around and nods.

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got here for you.”

\---

Peter spends the next four hours lugging empty crates from the back of the warehouse to the front. He’s sweat-soaked despite the cool temperature and eventually ties his jacket around his waist by the sleeves to keep it from getting ruined. 

Once he’s finished, exhausted, Toomes calls him over.

“You did good today, kid,” He says, approvingly, “Come back tomorrow, would you? I’ve got more work you can do. Nothing on the boat, quite yet, but I’ve got work regardless.”

Peter nods, too tired to do much but drag himself back home and go back to sleep. He turns to leave and do just that.

“Ah, wait.” Peter pauses. Toomes roots around in his jacket before handing Peter a wad of paper bills. At the teen’s starstruck look, Toomes grins, “I want you to keep coming back, don’t I? I appreciate the kind of work ethic you’ve got, kid. Now, it’s not as much as I usually give the other members of my crew, but you’ll get there. See you, Pete.”

Toomes turns and leaves, and Peter is left with more money than he’s ever held at one time and a promise of more.

He runs home and shoves it all in a shoebox under the bed before passing out in his clothes.

\---

He gets a call the next day.

Peter blinks numbly, “Pneumonia?”

“ _Yes,”_ The receptionist’s voice is unfamiliar and tinny, “ _Unfortunately, Ms. Parker seems to have gotten sick over a very short period of time which is due to her previously existing lung condition.”_

He swallows, “Okay, um-uh, what does that mean, exactly?”

“ _It means that we’ll have to treat her with her medical history in mind, is all. It could have been more severe than it is, which is good news. Otherwise, we’ll go through with the standard treatment and she should be fine in just a few weeks. Is that alright?_ ”

 _Of course it isn’t, I need my aunt back,_ Peter wants to say. To shout. To scream into the stupid little plastic telephone receiver until his wish comes true. 

He doesn’t.

“Yeah. Yeah, that-that’s fine.”

“ _Alright. We'll call you with updates. Take care._ ”

She hangs up.

Peter puts the phone back on its cradle.

If a pillowcase or two gets soaked through that night then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

\---

Peter comes back to the docks every day for a week, his anxiety rising and subsiding in waves. He’s earning money, sure - way more than he ever thought he’d be earning - but May is still in the hospital. 

He visited her, once. The way her chest moved sharply and tightly and all the machines that beeped and whirred and _imposed_ made him leave after just a few minutes. It made him feel something sickly and achy deep in his gut. The same way he felt when Ben was there with a bullet hole in his chest.

But Ben didn't make it.

He hasn’t visited again.

He throws himself into work, mostly. He’s gotten stronger and has better stamina than when he first started hauling, so it gets easier, and the pay gets better. He rotates around between moving crates and boxes, cleaning the warehouse, and doing lunch runs for the workers on less busy days. He supposes it’s probably as good as it’s going to get. 

Ned’s worried, of course. Peter hasn’t told him about May and he’s not planning to - he can handle this on his own. 

_For May._

He hasn’t seen Ned much, by his own accord, and he can tell his friend knows something is up, but Peter doesn’t want to worry him. Doesn’t want to garner pity that he doesn’t _need_.

He comes back every day for a week before Mr. Toomes tells him to go home one night.

“We’ve got buyers coming in,” He explains, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Pete, but you’re just a kid and I’d rather you stay out of that kind of stuff. People can get really... _stingy_ with their money. Trust me.”

The image of guns and knives and _unsatisfied customers_ come to mind, stuff from movies and comics that the teen almost immediately dismisses by default. Peter pretends he understands. He doesn’t. It’s only after he’s left that he realizes he never asks what exactly Toomes sells.

He decides not to worry about it. 

It rains buckets that night, and Peter stays inside to catch up on homework he’s missed in favor of working. Sandwich is more active than usual, which doesn’t say much, but he paces around the door before flopping in front of the couch instead of lying prone like an animal skin rug.

Peter’s in the middle of writing out his work for a chemistry equation when a crack and flash of blinding light makes him startle and break his pencil.

The lightning makes Sandwich howl, though it’s a pitiful, airy sound. Peter huffs and examines the pencil while he gets his breathing under control. He shakes the nervous energy away and stands to go get another pencil.

He roots around in the junk drawer, ignoring the next two lightning flashes and Sandwich’s subsequent gravelly barks. He sighs tiredly and Peter is grateful for being able to get home early since he didn’t have to haul.

The house rattles every rush of heavier downpour and the windows shake. Peter is used to it, and doesn’t so much as flinch. His nonplussed attitude only serves to make Sandwich more aggravated.

“Sandwich! Down! Jeez, what’s gotten into you?” Peter asks, walking between the dog and the door on his way back to the couch. He has to physically shove him out of his path with his shins.

Sandwich ignores Peter and keeps barking. The teen groans and works on finishing his homework. He’s still got to finish up the make-up work for history and find some way to drop out of band without seeming like a flake, which probably is still going to make him seem that way regardless, and then ask Mr. Toomes for more work which-

This lightning strike is louder, a booming, whip _-crack_ of a thing that sends Sandwich absolutely crazy and causes Peter to jump so hard he flings his pencil across the room.

He bites back a frustrated growl and covers his ears from Sandwich’s insane barking.

Sadness stabs him in the heart like a knife, a feeling he’s become all too familiar with as of late. May would know what to do. She was always better at controlling their dog, even if Peter was the one who brought him home and begged to keep him. Ironic, really. 

He misses her. _God_ , he misses her.

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and ignores the warm prickle of tears. Tells himself they’re from the pain and not the burning ache he’s feeling somewhere in his chest.

Sandwich barks in quick succession again and Peter’s melancholy makes way for frustration. He stands and marches over to the door, glaring out the window and at the dog like he’ll make some kind of connection between the two.

“What? _What?_ What could you _possibly_ be barking at?!” He all but shouts, and Sandwich whines loudly.

The teen clenches his fists. He’s tired and angry and he _misses May_ and he can’t _do this_ \- he can barely keep up with working and homework and the _dog keeps barking, stop, dammit-!_

Peter growls angrily and stomps over to the window, shoving the curtains aside and gesturing out.

“There is _nobody there!_ _Stop. Barking!_ ” 

Sandwich barks some more.

Peter’s eye twitches.

“ _Argh!_ ”

He fists his hair and glares out into the rain.

“There’s _nobody-!_ ”

Something catches on the edge of his vision.

“...there.”

His anger quickly deflates. Peter frowns and squints out into the rain. There’s _something_ there, a shine, maybe, something metallic and reflective and small. It’s a good hundred yards out, past where the beach devolves into the grass of the hill, buried in the sand, but it’s _there._

Sandwich keeps barking, saliva foaming up at the edges of his mouth and Peter frowns, more in concern than anger, now. He’s an old dog, he just doesn’t bark at stuff. Just _doesn’t_.

“Alright, alright. I’m only checking from the porch. Not going out in this rain...” He says, still distracted by the thing outside.

He grabs his raincoat from the rack and slides it on, boots still on but unlaced. He doesn’t bother tying them up. Peter shuffles around Sandwich who keeps barking and raving like he never does, spittle flying out with the sheer ferocity of his motions.

Peter winces at another _whip-crack_ and _boom_ of lightning before turning to open the door.

He forces it open against the wind and immediately wishes he’d just ignored the dog and sat back down because - of _course_ \- should’ve put him in the other room-

Sandwich goes barreling past, almost knocking Peter over, and disappears into the storm.

“ _Hey-_!” Peter cries, panic mounting immediately and fiercely. 

He doesn’t stop to think. He probably should have, but then he would have lost sight of the dog - he would have lost May and then the dog, _his_ dog, and then where would he be? He messed up - he should have- 

Could have-

 _Should have_ -

He’s running into the rain before he can think.

The storm is different when he isn’t a spectator. It’s all-encompassing, a torrent on all sides that buffets him relentlessly. It’s an unstoppable force versus a paper-weak object and he’s nearly shoved over immediately.

Lightning flashes in time with the pounding of his heart in his chest and he just _runs, runs, runs_. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t think. Just runs.

There’s a flash of lightning to his left, _too close, too close, and-_

He barrels after his dog’s silhouette like a bat out of hell, _and-_

His coat is rendered useless as water slams into his back like bullets and douses his clothes, sliding down his neck, and it just makes him feel more _helpless_ , _and-_

It feels like the ocean is angry, like it’s white-hot _furious_ , the sea itself rising up and out of its bed to batter him to death, drown him on dry land, finish the job it started, _and-_

It’s so dark, so _dark_ like the sun has completely been devoured by the rage of the storm and he can’t see hardly an inch in front of his face, the lightning is both a blessing and a curse when it leads the way forward in sparking glimpses, _and_ -

He’s panting and terrified and he’s _never_ been afraid of thunderstorms before, but that’s when he had _Ben_ and he had _May_ , _and-_

Peter’s foot snags on his untied laces and he goes tumbling end-over-end with a yelp.

There’s mud on his face, and his heart’s beating like a hummingbird, too loudly, and lightning _cracks_ and hits somewhere out in the ocean to illuminate the beach, barely twenty yards away now, and Peter scrambles to his feet-

Doesn’t stop-

Doesn’t think-

_Don’t think-_

And runs straight to the stretching, black, oceanic abyss, opening its arms wide to welcome him.

Peter’s never been afraid of the ocean. Even when he had swimming lessons when he was younger, he had his Uncle Ben in the shallows and his Aunt May on the shore. They were there the whole time and it was bright in the warm summer sun and he could see it all. He wasn’t afraid.

But here there’s no May, no Ben, just darkness and cold water and the unfathomable depth of the abyss below. Nothing and nobody but him and the sea.

He's afraid now.

He keeps running.

There’s something on the beach, outlined by the snap-crack of lightning and punctuated by the silhouette it casts, dark and bulky. It’s not shining anymore, but it’s there. It’s definitely there. And that confirmation of reality strikes fear so _absolute_ right into his heart.

Peter can see the panicked shape of Sandwich beside the thing, no doubt realizing his mistake in bolting out into the kind of storm that rattles and shakes and pulls like all it wants is to tear you apart. But he doesn’t run off.

Peter skids onto the sand, stumbles once, and keeps running.

His desperate call to his dog is lost in the roaring march and clap- _boom_ of the storm, the cold, yet humid air charged with static that _buzzes_ and sets the hair on Peter’s neck on end.

The blob of something isn’t moving, splayed as it is at the edge of the beach. The end of it is stuck in the water and the other end is almost smeared, a dark smudge on the pale gray sand.

Fresh fear cracks through Peter like a lightning flash.

It looks purposeful, not a blob at all-

It’s not moving-

 _They’re_ not moving-

Peter freezes, feeling overwhelmed and panicked and disoriented and _sick_ -

Because it-

 _They_ -

Are very distinctly _human_ in shape.

And Peter thinks-

There’s a body on the beach.


	2. leave home in a body bag

Peter doesn’t think after that. Just _does_.

He carries the person - a _girl,_ with dark hair heavy and wet and skin a warm, toasty brown - back up to the house, miraculously not getting struck by lightning or being shoved over to drown in an inch-deep puddle. 

Sandwich has calmed down somewhat, though he’s stressed and panting and hasn’t left the living room - where the girl is laid out on the couch.

She looks almost peaceful, from what Peter can tell. 

After a very embarrassing fifteen minutes where he tried his hardest to get her into clothes without looking - which, for obvious reasons, didn’t work - he just covered her with a blanket and steadfastly ignored the klaxon screaming in his head. Then he set her up with another blanket for good measure and started making soup.

The soup part may have been a mistake. Mainly since Peter doesn’t really know how to make soup. He just heats up some chicken broth and throws salt, pepper, and some leftover salad croutons in it, since, of course, everybody likes bread. Though, those turn into a mushy, soggy mess after a few minutes of steeping in the hot liquid. Because _of course_ they do.

He chokes down his portion, burning his tongue but still reveling in the warmth that calms his uncontrollable shivering for just a second or two. His nose is running again from the sudden temperature difference, so he wipes it away with the sleeve of his hoodie before turning to the bathroom.

He’s a wreck, which doesn’t necessarily come as a surprise. He simply grimaces self-deprecatingly when he takes in his appearance, looking approximately like he went a few rounds with a hurricane. Which isn't actually an inaccurate statement. The bags under his eyes accentuate the pale clamminess in his skin, hair greasy and still tangled into knots from the wind and rubbing it dry with a towel.

Speaking of, he grabs a towel from the rack on his way back to the living room and throws it on the puddle in front of the door, a big, slippery spot left from when he didn’t shut it. 

He thinks that’s excusable though, considering the circumstances. 

Peter finishes eating and cleaning and getting himself warmed up. Then the reality of the situation sets in.

He’s clinging to normal, which seems to be a theme nowadays. And Peter isn’t convinced there’s _anything_ normal about finding an unconscious girl on the beach in the middle of a borderline Cat-1 hurricane-level lightning storm.

He thinks, then starts overthinking.

He should have performed CPR. She’s probably dead by now. Drowned. Why else would she be on the beach? Oh, _god_ , Peter’s got a dead body on the couch, doesn’t he? _Oh, my god he’s got a dead body on the couch._

He’s jolted into movement by that thought and fear grabs his heart again, tight and unyielding. He darts into the kitchen and bites the tip of his thumb. 

He needs to call the police. No - an ambulance. He needs to do _something_ , call _someone_ , because he is in _no way equipped for this_. He hovers his hand anxiously over the landline. He thinks and thinks and-

“S-shit-!” He curses, elbow jostling the extra bowl of soup and spilling it over his forearm.

Peter sputters out weak curses under his breath as he yanks his arm away, the other hand darting out to tighten the bowl. There’s broth all over the floor, hot and near-burning his feet as it seeps into his socks.

He yanks off the offending garments and feels tears boil up to the corners of his eyes. Peter all but throws the bowl in the sink and looks around for a dishcloth. 

He’s cold and overwhelmed and _there’s a dead body on the couch_ and now he’s _burnt_ and _he can’t find a_ fucking _dishcloth_ and _god. Fucking. Dammit._

Peter grits his teeth and scrubs furiously at his eyes with his soup-free sleeve. He tugs his hoodie up and over his head and a fresh round of shivering hits with the forgotten chill. He bites his tongue and trudges out to the living room and don’t cry, _don’t cry-_

He steps into the living room and _screams_.

The dead body isn’t dead.

It _definitely_ isn’t dead, as the girl startles harshly and nearly falls off the couch, then clenches the blankets around herself like a vice. Peter drops his hoodie out of reflex and catches himself on the doorframe when he stumbles back.

There’s a pause.

The girl stares at him. He stares at the girl.

Peter opens his mouth to speak-

And immediately takes a throw pillow to the face.

“Wh- _hey!_ ” He protests, ducking when another pillow goes whizzing over his head.

The girl glares at him and chucks another pillow. Peter catches this one and uses it as a shield.

“Listen- _wait-!_ ” 

She finally runs out of pillows and kicks out with her feet, shoving herself up against the opposite armrest of the couch, as far from Peter as she can get without standing up. The blanket is tightened even further.

Peter slowly puts the pillow down and raises his hands placatingly. 

“Okay, okay, that’s, uh, that’s fine. You stay over there and, uh, I stay over here.” He smiles weakly.

Because, really, what do you do in this situation? Peter is so immensely unprepared he forgot the very logical first step of _calling the police_ in favor of spilling boiling liquid all over himself. 

The girl keeps glaring like she can make him spontaneously combust, which, okay, fair. If Peter found himself in a strange house with strange people and, most pointedly, _no clothes_ , he’d probably also be freaking out. 

She’s not quite freaking out, though. She seems angry and annoyed and maybe a little bit surprised, but not scared. Not frightened. Not panicked.

And, as Sandwich stays as calm as ever, Peter gets the feeling that he’s the only one freaking out in this situation.

“Um,” He says, then pauses, “Do you… want food?”

The girl squints and Peter gestures to his mouth.

“You know. Food.” He makes an eating motion.

The girl’s expression is utterly unimpressed and Peter feels more than a little bit like an idiot.

“Right, of course, um… do you like toast? I mean-I made soup but I, uh, spilled that on myself so… I guess I can make more soup? Do you like soup? Or, no, I don’t have the stuff for it… is toast okay? I can just throw it in the toaster and, y’know… make… toast.”

He winces and resists the urge to slap himself. The girl, though, just keeps staring.

“Okay. Um. I’ll… go do that?”

There’s a pause. Neither of them move. Neither of them speak.

Peter’s shoulders slowly lower and he nods to himself, “Right. Toast.”

He definitely does _not_ flee to the kitchen, and in fact, does _not_ spend the five minutes it takes to make toast doing nothing but staring at the wall and not being useful and cleaning up the mess on the floor. He doesn’t.

The girl is in the same spot when he gets back. It throws him off a bit, though he’s not sure what he’s expecting. She just sits and glares, like a very annoyed statue.

Peter clears his throat and moves around the couch.

The girl stiffens immediately and starts looking more hostile than annoyed. Peter stops.

“Okay, uh,” He gestures with the plate, “I’ve got food. Toast?”

She keeps her pose guarded, metaphorical hackles raised like a cornered cat. A slightly damp, kinda stabby-looking cornered cat, but still.

After a second or two she seems to come to a decision and extends a hand. Peter gives a reassuring smile and moves to give her the plate.

He startles when she snatches it away and starts ripping into the toast like she hasn’t eaten in days. Crumbs scatter on the plate and over the blankets, though she seems blissfully oblivious. 

“Wow,” He says, “You’re hungry, huh.”

She glares. Peter immediately backtracks.

“Not that that’s a bad thing-! I just mean, y’know, uh…. Yeah…” He says, feeling stupid again.

She finishes with the toast and leaves the plate on her lap, unmoving. She’s less hostile, but still glaring daggers into Peter. He worries his lip and thinks for a second.

“Okay, um… I have school tomorrow? I’ll just, um, go to my room and go to sleep, then? And tomorrow you can tell me what’s your deal? Or, no, that sounds rude - you get my point, right? Er… yeah. Um, goodnight.”

He gives a wobbly salute - actually _salutes_ , like the idiot he is - and goes to his room.

Then immediately spins on his heel, snags a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt from May’s room - and underwear, but he’s blocking that part out of his memory as best he can - before depositing them on the other side of the couch.

“Sorry-er, I figured you’d want clothes? I mean, _obviously_ , you’d want clothes, uh… so, here? I’m gonna sleep now. Goodnight. Again.”

The girl glares at him but seems to be at least somewhat grateful. Peter takes it for the win it is and turns back to his room.

He doesn’t bother doing much more than running a hand through his hair before collapsing onto his bed. He has a vague thought of the girl and something about brushing his teeth before he’s out like a light.

\---

Peter almost has a heart attack when he finds her asleep on the couch the next morning. 

He stands there blinking for a good five minutes. Then he remembers.

“Right,” He exhales heavily, feeling tired down to the bones, “ _Right_ …”

He puts a note on the counter and leaves before she wakes up. 

Which, in hindsight? Leaving a disoriented, possibly half-drowned girl who evidently doesn’t know where she is, who Peter is, and may or may not be a wanted criminal and/or kidnapping victim alone at home isn’t the best idea. 

But, school awaits, and Peter can’t afford to miss out on anything. Not school, not work, not anything.

Not while May is gone.

_For her._

As always, it’s a drag. Flash seems to be even more aggressively egotistical than usual and Peter is just fed up. Fed up with him, with school, with _everything_. He avoids everyone. He avoids Ned too. He doesn’t feel as guilty about that as he probably should.

He’s running out the door as soon as the bell rings and not looking back.

Work is, well, work. He lugs crates and moves boxes and ignores the nagging voice that’s started murmuring in the back of his head, asking questions like _What are the crates for?_ and _Why aren’t you asking?_. He drowns it out as best as he can. He hasn’t questioned Mr. Toomes’ business before and he’s not looking to start now.

Not when he’s doing it for May. Not when she’s relying on him.

He unlocks the front door and is ready to collapse on the couch when a throw pillow nails him in the face.

He’s so startled he almost falls down the steps, just barely managing to catch himself on the doorframe.

Peter blinks a couple of times at the pillow, then notices the figure huddled in a blanket on the couch.

“Uh… o-oh! Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry, uh…” Peter stammers, rubbing the back of his neck, “D-did you get the note I wrote for you?”

He glances into the kitchen and spots the note, unmoved on the countertop.

“That’s a ‘no’, then… alright, uh."

He steps into the house and shuts the door behind him. The girl looks unapologetic for the pillow-throwing and is still as fierce as ever, but doesn’t move.

A quick assessment shows that she’s wearing the clothes he set out for her - which, thank _god_ , as some part of Peter instinctively relaxes from the sheer awkward tension that had stemmed from that fact.

“Okay,” He claps his hands together, not as loud as he could have, and wracks his brain for something to talk about, “Do, uh… do you have a name?”

She squints at him. Glares, more like.

“‘Cause, I don’t know - I just feel really weird calling you ‘the girl’ in my head. _Soooo_... your name?” 

The girl shuffles almost uncomfortably and something dawns on him. 

“You can’t talk, can you?” 

She glares harder and Peter slumps. Her silence and subsequent hostility is all the confirmation he needs. He feels inexplicably… _sad_ at the revelation. 

His melancholy only lasts a second before he glances around, practicality and sheer optimistic motivation taking over. 

“Well, I think I’ve got, uh, pen and paper around here somewhere… one sec.” He says, and shoots the girl an apologetic look as he leaves the room.

Peter moves to the kitchen and starts rooting around. The junk drawers yield at least two functioning pens, one red and one black, and the others give him some mostly-empty computer and notebook paper pages.

He returns with his loot and gives the girl a smile. She shuffles on the couch and narrows her eyes at him, arms crossed. 

“Okay, so, I’m… gonna have to come over there,” He says, hoping he comes off as non-threatening and submissive as he secretly feels, “I’ll just give you the pens and stuff and I’ll get out of your space, alright?”

She glares but slowly nods. Peter extends the papers first, holding them by the end of the stack. The girl takes them and gives them a look, but Peter can’t place it. 

The pens are next, and he holds them both in the same hand by the tips, but there’s still barely a few inches of space between them like this. She reaches her hand out more hesitantly and snatches the pens away when she gets close enough.

Then she holds a pen in one fist and a page in the other and just sits there.

Peter frowns, “Um… you do know how to use those, right?”

She glares at him furiously and he waves his hands jerkily as he backtracks.

“I-I just mean-I didn’t-uh-” 

The girl rolls her eyes and puts a page and pen on the coffee table between them. Peter blanks and stares at them for a good five seconds. Then she huffs and gestures to the paper almost angrily.

“You want… oh-oh! You want me to write something?” 

The girl nods, looking slightly embarrassed. Peter doesn’t mention it.

“Okay, so…” He clicks out the black pen he was given and writes out his name in large, awkward letters. He’s used to writing cramped and making the most of the space he’s given, so it shows.

He raises the page to face her when he’s done.

“See? Peter,” He points at the name on the page, then himself, “ _Pe-ter_.”

Something like understanding dawns in the girl’s eyes and she clicks her own pen a bit awkwardly. Peter’s rush of triumph makes way for confusion and mild worry when she scribbles and _keeps_ scribbling. For a good thirty seconds, at least.

“Um, you-”

She silences him by holding up the page. It’s a mess of swooping red lines and jagged edges, and though they’re overlapping and a shaky mess, Peter can see that it’s at least somewhat deliberate. 

He squints at the page, trying to make out any recognizable letters, “M… J… MJ. _MJ._ Huh. Can… can I call you MJ?”

The girl seems unimpressed and more than a bit disappointed but re-crosses her arms and reluctantly nods. Peter beams. She glowers.

“MJ! Alright, uh, I’m Peter, which you, er, knew… anyway, now that we know each other we can hopefully figure out what’s going on with you, right?” He says, and the girl - newly dubbed MJ - shrugs.

Peter tilts his head slightly. MJ is… she’s not odd, per se, she just tends to stay in that little zone of apathy and aggravation, whereas Peter is on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. That’s not to say he doesn’t have a bad day occasionally - or, bad _days_ , as it’s been more often recently, but he’s a lot more optimistic and positive than she seems to be. 

Come to think of it, MJ is probably having bad _days_ too, at this point.

“Alright, MJ. What do you want for dinner?”

She frowns, then points at the plate left on the coffee table from last night. Peter blinks.

“Toast? You… you want _toast_ for dinner?”

MJ nods seriously and Peter has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He stands and makes his way to the kitchen.

“Toast it is. Coming right up.”

He’s finishing buttering MJ’s unusual dinner choice when he hears fabric shuffling behind him, and it takes all his willpower not to turn around. He glances at his peripheral and sees a glimpse of chocolate-brown curls peeking around his shoulder.

Peter telegraphs his movements as best he can and slides the plate of buttered toast along the counter, to where MJ can reach it. Then he starts buttering his own toast because, well, she’s got the right idea, frankly.

At some point between giving her the plate and finishing making his own dinner MJ’s plate of toast had been cleared, leaving only crumbs.

Peter turns slowly and catches the girl in question peeking around the corner from the living room, blanket tucked around her shoulders.

He takes a bite of his own food and blinks, “You _really_ like toast, huh?”

MJ’s response to that is to quickly shuffle back to the couch.

He eats his dinner in silence after that and returns to the living room to find Sandwich asleep near the door and MJ wrapped up in her blanket again, holding the paper with _‘Peter’_ written on it in contemplation.

Peter raps on the doorframe to get her attention and turns to the bathroom door.

“Gonna get ready for bed. You, uh, need anything?” He asks.

MJ squints a bit before shaking her head. Peter nods slowly.

“Alright. G’night.”

Peter darts into his room and puts on actual pajamas this time, brushing his teeth in the communal bathroom sink and once again melting into his bed, boneless.

Sleep isn’t as sudden as it usually is, though he’s surprisingly energetic as opposed to typical afternoons, and it washes over him much slower and calmer as a result.

Peter drifts off staring at the jacket hooked on the top of his door and can’t remember when he put it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter but honestly I didn't write a story outline so I'm muddling my way through here a bit. Not very happy with the whole May thing I have going on but I've got some ideas for this.
> 
> The next chapter might not be out for a bit since I'm planning on re-writing that possibly from scratch.
> 
> Leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter's song rec: _'The Salt and the Sea'_ , by the Lumineers
> 
> -
> 
> So, I don't know how the pace of this story is gonna be updated? It was originally supposed to be a one-shot but it mutated from the estimated 20 pages and now consists of almost _73_ google docs pages spanning two whole documents. So. Uh. Yeah.
> 
> I'm honestly trying my best here but I've never written anything this long so if there's a gap between chapters (cause I've learned my lesson about setting update schedules and am not making any promises) that's longer than a month it's probably because I've lost the plot and am hashing it out. No worries! I'm gonna try my hardest to fulfill the story to the end. Please tell me if there are any inconsistencies or typos!
> 
> So, with that out of the way, please enjoy this amalgamation of a plot mess!


End file.
